


Untried

by FreezingRayne



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-16
Updated: 2011-04-16
Packaged: 2017-10-18 04:17:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/184882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreezingRayne/pseuds/FreezingRayne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alistair has that guilty look on his face—the one that reminds Zevran of a pup that’s been caught chewing his master’s boots.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Untried

Alistair glances over his shoulder for what has to be the eightieth time since they’d stopped for the night. There’s nothing behind him to see but pine trees and, in Zevran’s opinion, the highly appealing sight of their leader cleaning her armor, stripped to nothing but leathers.

He very much doubts Alistair is interested in the trees.

“You’re going to get a crick in your neck, my friend,” Zevran says, shifting the embers of the fire with his blade point, coaxing them back to life. “And then what sort of Grey Warden will you be?”

“What?” Alistair has that guilty look on his face—the one that reminds Zevran of a pup that’s been caught chewing his master’s boots.

Zevran nods toward the tree line. “A lovely sight, no?”

Alistair colors, spluttering, caught somewhere between agreement and the engrained need to defend his lady’s honor. “I wasn’t—I mean, yes, she’s—.”

Zevran can’t help his chuckle.

And now Alistair looks hurt. His sensibilities are more delicate than many of the _Chantry_ girls Zevran has met.

“I mean no offense. I simply find it rather comical that such a big man with such a big—.” He can’t help his eyes from flicking downward, “…Sword, would be afraid of telling a woman he wants her.”

He half-expects Alistair to storm off at that, but instead he sighs, sinking back down against the half-rotting log he’s using as a stool. “Is it that obvious?”

“To me? Yes. But then again, reading people is part of what I do.”

“Does that talent come from being an assassin,” Alistair asks, “Or being a whore?”

“Both, I suppose.” Zevran grins. “Of course, I was quite young as a whore. I didn’t have very much time to perfect the art.” He would be lying if he says he doesn’t relish the look of mingled disbelief and horror on Alistair’s face. It’s rare that he has such a rapt, impressionable audience.

The Warden does a fairly good job of covering up his discomfort. “Er…do you think that…that _she_ knows?”

“That you fancy her? Yes. She is quite sharp, our leader.”

Alistair buries his face in his hands. “Maker help me.”

Zevran pats him on the arm. “Now, now. No need for melodrama.” Alistair looks up again, the light of the fire sharpening his features, turning his skin gold. That, coupled with that hard, clean muscle of his back and shoulders, makes Zevran wish he’d show even a hint of interest in men. He’d had a brief romance with a man built like Alistair, a few years back in Antiva. He certainly wouldn’t mind repeating the experience. Perhaps, with enough wine and a little coaxing…

But no, he’s trying to _solve_ Alistair’s romantic woes at the moment, not tangle them up further. And he’d rather keep the wine for himself, if he’s perfectly honest. He still has a flask of the stuff the Dalish had given them. It’s deep and heady, and gets him drunk enough to make him feel pleasantly light, but not so much that he wouldn’t be able to handle himself in a fight.

“You’re doing it again,” Zevran hums, watching Alistair glance over his shoulder.

“ _Maker_.” Alistair kicks at the pile of kindling beside his foot. “I’m pathetic.”

“No,” Zevran says. “You’re just…untried. We’re not so different, you and I.”

Alistair cocks an eyebrow in one of the most disbelieving looks Zevran has ever seen. “How do you figure that?”

“Both champions of justice—.” He chooses to glide smoothly past Alistair’s snort. “Both men of exceptionally fine looks—.”

“You were an assassin. I was a _Templar_.”

Zevran waves a dismissive hand. “Details. Both orphans, both unwanted by whatever family we had left, both sold at an impressionable age—.”

“I wasn’t _sold_. The Arl—.”

“So he gave you away?” Zevran clucks his tongue. “That _is_ terrible. I was at least traded for thirty silvers. Your life has indeed been tragic, my friend.”

Alistair lets out a breath. “You are an infuriating person, you know that?”

“I’ve been told that before, if you can believe it.”

“It wasn’t…you…” Alistair runs his hands through his hair. “You wouldn’t understand.”

Zevran takes a healthy pull on the flask. “On the contrary, I think I understand quite well. You’ve spent half your life having things taken from you, and you’ve given the rest to your kingdom. Seems to me that you deserve something good.”

“I think I must have hit my head, or something,” Alistair says, “Because that almost sounded reasonable.”

Zevran gives him his very best salacious grin which, if he does say so himself, is pretty damn good. “Then why don’t we retire to your tent? I can show you just how reasonable I can be.”

“Er…” Alistair’s flushes, if possible, even darker. “That has to be the most liberal use of the word ‘reasonable’ I’ve ever heard.”

“Perhaps.” Zevran taps his fingers against the flask. “I’m waiting for an answer, my friend.”

“What?” Now he looks more like a spooked horse. “You’re serious? I’m not—it’s not that you aren’t…what are you smirking about?”

“See? You have just spurned my advances, and we’re still good friends, no?”

“I don’t know if I could call us ‘friends’, let alone good, but I see what you’re trying to do.” He claps Zevran on the shoulder. Thank you.”

“Go speak to her,” Zevran commands, toasting him with his flask. “If she breaks your heart, my offer still stands.”

“…Thanks.”

“And the two of you can always come find me if you are looking to, shall we say, spice things up a bit.”

“I’ll…keep that in mind.”

“Antiva is known for it’s spice, you see.”

“ _I’m leaving now_.”

Zevran laughs, finishing off the rest of the wine and turning to Leliana, who has just sat down on the other side of the fire to re-string her bow.

“Leliana, have I ever told you of the time I was mistaken for a Chantry sister? It is a bit of a strange tale…”


End file.
